Even the dogs in the street know
by ballon
Summary: A story about Bobby. Possible. Plausible. Probable. I'm not sure. "He smiles, and she smiles. It is hard not to return his smile."


**_Even the dogs in the street know..._**

Being a drunk isn't always about some big, public display of being loud, or obnoxious or falling down. Sometimes being a drunk is simply about being drunk. It doesn't always interfere with the job, it doesn't always interfere with day to day functioning. It becomes day to day functioning. But, over time, it wears hard, and over time, it seeps into places you didn't intend for it to go.

**X**

I stand in his bathroom washing my hands at the sink. Bobby is in the kitchen, cleaning up the Chinese food containers and paper plates. My eyes are fixed on the squat glass on the back of the sink. The glass is empty, save for a few miniscule drops of a golden liquid. I pick up the glass and sniff, inhaling the smoky scent of liquor. I hold the glass in my hand for a moment, thinking the bathroom is an odd place to leave such a thing. What kind of person has a glass of scotch in the bathroom?

**X**

_Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up_. The phone is ringing and ringing and then rolls into voicemail. So, I hang up and dial back and let the phone ring and ring and ring. This is the third time I dial back. It is his cell phone, so no matter where he is, he should pick up. Tomorrow is a day off, and he said he didn't have any plans for the evening. Maybe he is someplace without cell phone reception. _Pick up, pick up, pick up_. It is just before 11:00pm, so I don't think that he is asleep. And, even if on the off chance he is asleep, the infernal ringing of his cell phone should wake him. _Pick up, pick up, pick up_. Voice mail again. Oh well, I will try him back in the morning.

**X**

"Oh hey, sorry I'm late." He says as he plops down in the chair across from me. He smiles as he drums the fingers on his left hand against the table. He fidgets slightly as he looks for the server. He picks up a packet of fake sugar, weaving it through his fingers, keeping his hands busy. "What're you having?" He asks, looking at my drink.

"Club soda." I smile, I can feel his energy. He is in a good mood. He is the kind of man whose mood shapes the evening. If he is quiet, the evening is quiet. If he is happy, the evening is lively and funny. If he is upset, well, if he is upset, there is no evening for he usually calls to cancel.

"Oh great, Makers Mark, neat." He places his order as the server comes to stand beside them. The server smiles at him, his smile is infectious.

"Good day today?" I ask.

"To the end of the day." He drinks the whiskey, neat, before the glass even hits the table. He orders another before the server leaves the table. He tilts the empty glass in my direction by way of a mock toast. He smiles, and I smile. It is hard not to return his smile.

**X**

Ring! Ring! Ring! My cell phone is chirping loudly on the bedside table. I fumble to reach the phone, drop it, and pick up on the 5th ring.

"Hello." My voice is soft, my mind still mostly asleep. I look at the clock. 2:46am.

"Oh, did I wake you?" He asks, clearly taken aback by the fact that I was asleep.

"Is everything Ok?" I ask, thinking that it must be, or he would sound different.

"Yeah, I just, um." He pauses and I can now hear him fumbling with the phone. "It's late." He says, and I can imagine him looking at his watch or looking at a clock.

"Yeah." I smile to myself. I haven't heard his voice in a few days. It is nice to hear his voice.

"Whatdidja do today?" He asks.

"What?" I reply, realizing that he is on the phone with me at almost 3:00 in the morning for what feels like casual conversation. I roll over in bed and stretch out on my back, flexing and relaxing my feet, my toes. Slowly I am waking up.

"I just, you know, well, I haven't talked to you in a while." He says, and I think this is a little bit funny. I like the sound of his voice. He must like the sound of mine.

"We're going to see each other tomorrow." There is a bit of laughter in my voice at the ridiculousness of the conversation.

"Yeah. I guess." He says, his tone is changing, he sounds a bit slower.

"What did you do today?" I turn the question around, still feeling there must be a reason for him to call me in the middle of the night.

"Not much. I did the crossword." He offers, and I think I can hear him moving around his kitchen. I can hear him opening cabinets and closing them, I can hear him opening the refrigerator.

"How was that?" I ask.

"It was Ok." He sounds like he is drinking something as he answers.

"Well, I went to the grocery store." I offer, "I had to make something to bring to my brother's house for that dinner thing."

"Oh, how was that?" He asks about the dinner thing.

"It was Ok. I didn't want to go, you know, family, it's a lot." I admit.

"Yeah." He says, and I can hear the clank of something heavy hit his counter. "Family." He says. I think about his family. And, I can tell he is thinking about his family. He sounds distant. "I should go." He says, and he hangs up before I can say anything else.

**X**

"Tired?" He states the obvious as I yawn, placing the back of my hand over my mouth. I look at him for a long moment.

"Yeah, I couldn't get back to sleep last night." I admit, thinking about his phone call in the middle of the night, thinking it strange that he should comment on my being tired without commenting on the phone call. "How'd you sleep last night?" I ask.

"I don't know." He says, in that distracted way he has when his brain is working on something else. I wonder if he doesn't know or if he doesn't want to talk about it. Either way, I let it go.

**X**

_Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up_. I hold the phone with my good hand. I have just sliced my other hand open by accidentally breaking a glass into the sink. I am pretty sure I need stitches. I glance at the clock. 10:22am. _Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up_. I don't feel like going to the ER alone, maybe he will take me. _Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up_.

"Hello?" His voice is a hoarse croak. It is clear that he was asleep.

"Bobby?" I say, for lack of anything else to say, I am surprised that he was asleep. "I'm sorry, you were asleep." I lamely state the obvious, apologizing for something that is not my fault.

"Yeah, what time is it?" He asks, slightly disoriented, his brain still muddled.

"Just after 10:00." I reply, looking at the blood seeping through the dish towel.

"Didja need something?" His voice doesn't sound any smoother.

"No, no." I say, wrapping the towel more tightly around my hand. "I'm sorry I woke you." I say, thinking that I can get myself to the ER. I do not need him. I probably shouldn't have called him.

He hangs up before I can say anything further.

**X**

"Bobby." Bang! Bang! Bang! I am pounding on his door. I know he is home, I can hear the television. Bang! Bang! Bang! "Bobby." I call his name again. I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone. I dial his number. I can hear his cell phone ringing inside. No answer, the call rolls to voice mail so I hang up. bang. bang. bang. My pounding is getting weaker. I am giving up. I lean my forehead against the door. I can feel the tears on my cheeks. My day has been indescribably bad. I need―I need someone―I need him―I need him to answer the door―just answer the damn door. A neighbor opens her door, glares at me for making so much noise. I viciously wipe the tears from my cheeks and kick at the door, I kick at him. Then, I turn and walk away.

**X**

I don't know why people seem to think that there is a big production and a lot of noise when someone is drowning. We imagine wild scrambling and flailing, loud yelps for help. I don't actually think this is the case. I think drowning can be a quiet thing. You slip below the surface, not realizing you're drowning, not realizing you've lost your bearings until it is too late.

**X**

So, I'm sitting in the passenger seat of Bobby's car. I'm thirsty, but there is nothing to drink. We're running late, and since it is my fault, I feel funny mentioning that I'm thirsty and asking to maybe stop to get something to drink. We've got like another 30 minutes to go. So, I ask –

"Do you have a mint or something?"

"Yeah, console." He replies, referring to the console box between the driver's seat and the passenger's seat. I open up the console and retrieve a tin of Altoids. Cinnamon, my favorite. So, I take two, which would burn anyone else's tongue and make their eyes water. But, I think the cinnamon ones are a bit more mild than the peppermint or the spearmint, so I like two. "Hand me those." He wiggles his fingers in my direction. I tilt the box toward him so he can take one. My eyes widen as he takes three.

"Wow." I say, not able to stifle my surprise.

"What?" Bobby cuts me a sideways glance.

"I thought I was a professional at eating Altoids. Three. I don't think I know anyone who like three." I smile at him, wondering what kind of Altoid habit a person has to have in order to have a tolerance for three.

"I like the cinnamon ones the best." He smiles, as he moves the three burning hot Altoid tablets across his tongue, savoring the bite.

"It's cause they are the best. Though, the chocolate covered ones are pretty damn good." I allow.

"But they are more like a candy than a mint." He replies, as if he just read my mind. I laugh and open the console and notice two other tins of Altoids. I shudder as I realize that he not only eats them three at a time, he must eat them pretty often to keep two back up tins in his car. That's a lot of Altoids.

**X**

"Oh Jesus, Bobby, what happened." I reach up with my hand as if to touch his face. He has a deep bruise on his orbital bone and a bit of swelling. His left hand is bruised as well.

"Nothing." Bobby tries to shrug it off. I take a step closer, not touching him, trying to get a better look. The bruise is fresh, still dark and purple.

"It doesn't look like nothing." My eyes shift from the bruise to his eyes. I can't see anything in his expression, anything that might give away what happened. His expression is neutral. "Were you in a fight?" I ask, stating the obvious. It looks as if someone hit him, and by the bruises on his hand, he hit someone as well.

"It's nothing." He tries to step away. He has scrapes on his elbows like he fell against the pavement.

"Bobby." I don't want to let it drop.

"It's nothing." He says for a third time, and looks at me like if I don't let it drop, he is going to leave.

"Fine." I say, even though I know it is far from fine.

**X**

I look at my watch, I even tap it with my finger as if that will convince me it is keeping accurate time. He is 30 minutes late. I think about what could be keeping him. I take my cell phone out of my purse, it is working. No messages. I talked to him that morning, we discussed the time.

I dial his number on my cell phone. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. No answer. Maybe he is held up at work. But if he is held up at work, he usually can call. Though maybe not, if he is in an interview or something. I start rationalizing all of the plausible reasons for him to stand me up and not call.

I dial his number back, this time I leave him a message – _Hey, it's me, it's 9:30, I hope everything's Ok. Anyway, I'm catching a cab home. Call me_.

**X**

"Hey, what happened last night?" I ask, it's the next afternoon. We're having coffee.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to leave you waiting for me." He isn't looking at me, he's pouring cream into his coffee.

"Did you get caught on a case?" I ask, wondering about his current cases, about what could keep him from calling to let me know he couldn't make it.

"I ran into Frank yesterday." He distracts me with his response.

"You ran into Frank." I echo back his words, trying to imagine how that might happen. Bobby doesn't exactly frequent the same places as his brother, and I can't imagine them randomly running into each other.

"He ran into me. He showed up outside my building. He says he's clean." Bobby takes a sip of his coffee and winces a little, as if the taste is off, as if he'd rather be drinking something else.

"He just showed up?" I ask. I'm looking at Bobby, half my brain still wanting to get back to why he stood me up, the other half telling me to let it go.

"Yeah, just to show me he's clean." Bobby fiddled with the coffee cup in his hands, still not looking me in the eye.

"What'd you say?"

"I told him I didn't care. I told him I didn't care if he was using, and I didn't care if he was clean. His life is on him." Bobby shrugged, and ran his hand through his hair, making the wiry strands stick up a little.

"You don't care." I wonder if that's possible.

"I don't care." He is eyeballing his coffee again. He hasn't shaved in a few days, his beard is scruffy, the edges not defined. He looks tired, distracted. He is getting impatient with me.

"Just like that." I say, I know I'm pushing his limits, but I genuinely cannot understand how you throw a switch on someone. One day they're in your life, the next day they're out. I watch him throw his full cup of coffee into the trash, hard. He does care, he just wishes he didn't.

"I gotta go." He says, blowing me off.

"Yeah." I nod, knowing that he would say that.

**X**

"Hey." I say as I open my door. He is looking very rumpled. His shirt his untucked, his hair is dishelveled, he does a shuffle step sideways. He's drunk. "What's going on?" I ask. It's just after 11:00pm.

"I don't, you know." He says, as if we are mid-conversation. He runs his left hand across his face, smudging his features as if cannot feel them. "I don't care." He shakes his head _no_ so emphatically that he does another one of those shuffle side steps. I look up at him, the conversation from earlier in the coffee shop replaying in my head.

"Ok." I say, because I know he does care. He may not want to, but he does, and it twists him up inside. "How'd you get here?" He looks at me for a moment like he has no idea.

"Oh, yeah, I uh, I walked." He says, punctuating his statement by another shuffle step until he comes to lean against the wall.

"Barely." I mumble to myself. "You should come in." I say.

"I don't care. I don't." He follows me inside, and the door closing around him nearly knocks him down. He's a huge guy, so he almost takes me with him.

"Bobby." I say, and turn, and he tries to stop himself short, but he doesn't have the balance for it so he bumps into me. "It's Ok." I say, and I don't know why I'm saying it. It's not Ok, but I seem to be trying to convince myself that it is.

He looks at me, that lopsided smile, those brown eyes, his unruly hair, and his scruffy face. Something about him, something always draws me in and keeps me. For a moment, I think he is going to touch me. He lifts his hand as if to touch me. He hesitates, and drops it to his side. His breathing is heavy, uneven, he can barely focus on me.

"You can take the couch." I say, not thinking he can make it anyplace else.

"I don't care." He says.

"It's Ok." I say, and kick myself for saying something I know isn't true.

**X**

Quicksand. Interesting substance. On the surface, it looks like any other sand. But once you're in it, the more you struggle, the deeper you go.

**X**

"So the other night, when you stood me up," I say, we are at a diner, eating breakfast. Well, I'm eating breakfast, Bobby has finished and is working through the crossword. He does not look up at me, he remains focused on the puzzle in front of him. "Were you at work?" I bring it back up, I cannot get it off my mind.

"Unthinking repetition, 4 letters." He replies.

"Rote." I say. "Were you at work?" I press on.

"Nursery rhyme residence." He says to himself. "Shoe." He solves the word.

"Bobby. Where were you the other night?" I ask. Finally he looks at me.

"Invisible." He says. "6 letters." As if I get this right he will answer my question.

"Unseen." I reply, sighing.

"I don't know." He says, and I look at him, trying to gauge if he is being serious.

"It was just a few days ago." I'm frustrated. He's not going to tell me where he was, but he isn't going to lie about it either.

**X**

"Oh crap." I think to myself as I look at my watch. I was supposed to call Bobby. We were supposed to try to get together. The evening slipped away from me. It is almost midnight. _Oh crap_, I think again. I yank out my cell phone and dial his number.

"Hello?" A woman answers, and my mouth falls open in shock. For a moment I don't say anything. "Hello?" She repeats, as if she has no clue she has just answered someone else's cell phone. Any normal person would realize her mistake and hang up. In fact, if I was a normal person, I would realize my mistake and hang up.

"Hey, so where are you?" I ask, playing along, as if I know her, and I called her on purpose.

"Coppers." She replies, revealing that Bobby's cell phone is in a bar about 6 blocks from where I'm standing. I hang up, my head filling and emptying all at the same time, leaving me slightly dizzy with adrenaline of what I should do. I can't mind my own business, I can't go home. So, I find myself walking the 6 blocks to Coppers.

It is a funny little Irish type bar. Copper, like the metal, like the penny, like the hound from _Fox and the Hound_ (where'd that come from?). Copper, like Bobby is a cop. But, this isn't really a cop bar. I push through the door and stand for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. I look around for Bobby, for Bobby's phone, for some chick that looks stupid enough to have answered someone else's phone.

She's easy to spot, fuzzy big hair, sloppy and drunk, leaning over the bar as if her breasts will pay for her next drink. I dial Bobby's number, and sure enough his phone is resting on the bar near the fuzzy big haired bimbo. She looks at it, reaches for it as if to answer again. My mouth falls open a bit in surprise. She really is quite stupid, or quite stupidly drunk. I look around for Bobby.

He is harder to find. He is at a table, alone. A few empty glasses in front of him. I walk towards him and see his familiar leather binder thing on the table in front of him. I can see him looking at papers, at photographs. I wonder if they are related to a case. I am standing beside him and he still hasn't noticed me. He is not looking at photographs from a case. They are yellowed and tattered images of his mother, of his brother, of his family from long ago. His mother looks like Jackie Kennedy, dark hair, teased and coiffed, perfect 60s dress, perfect smile, perfectly happy, except that I know that she wasn't.

In that moment, I know. I know something that I should've known all along. I know something that I almost do not want to know, that I cannot un-know. I know why he doesn't answer his phone, why he doesn't come to his door when he's home, why he sometimes leaves me waiting for him. I know why some mornings he can't seem to string his words together. I know too much and I know too little all at the same time.

Any normal person might yell at him, slam their hands on the table and tell him to get his shit together, let him know he is screwing up, that his life is sliding sideways. Any normal person might even walk away and save saying all of those things for a sober moment. But what do I do? I jump into the sand with both feet. I slide into the booth across from him and I lay my hands on the table, my finger tips near his finger tips, and I don't say a god damn thing.

**X**

When something hits you like a ton of bricks, it hits you hard, it knocks you down. Of course if you were really hit with a ton of bricks, it would probably kill you.

**X**

"Hey, so what happened to you the other night?" He asks me. I haven't talked with him in 4 days. I haven't been to work in 4 days. In fact, after _the other night_ I skipped town for 4 days.

"What?" I say, like I'm deaf, which I'm not, so I end up sounding lame.

"The other night, you were supposed to call me. Then, you just disappeared." He observes. I'm watching him drink a beer like he's drinking liquid Drano.

"Yeah, about that…" I say, watching him set his empty glass on the table. The waitress automatically serves him another. I reach over and steal a french fry from his plate and dredge it through some salt. "What do you mean what happened to me?" I ask, my brain finally catching onto the fact that he doesn't remember seeing me the other night.

"You were supposed to call. You didn't call. You didn't even leave a message. Then you take off work and disappear for a few days. Is something going on?" He watches me take another french fry, dredging it through some salt. He surprises me by reaching out and catching my hand.

"Is something going on?" I ask, using his words, and he thinks I'm just stalling in answering him. Really I'm asking him, I want to hear him say that something is going on. He releases my hand, and drinks some of his beer, well, most of his beer. I think about how many times we have sat here before, how many times I've seen him have some beers when we grab dinner together. I think about how that no longer seems so fine.

"What's with you?" His eyebrows knit together and he looks at me critically.

"What's with me? What's going on with you?" I ask and watch him finish his beer. He moves to motion for another, but I intercept and motion for the check.

"Have you had enough?" I ask. I sound bitchy. I hate that I sound bitchy.

"Yeah, I've had enough." He throws some bills down on the table, and he is not referring to the beer. I watch him walk away.

**X**

I don't know how long I sit at the restaurant. I pay the check, and simply sit, thinking. I finally stand and walk out into the night. I breathe in the cold air, hoping to clear my thoughts, to steady my mind. I think of Bobby, how he was the other night, so twisted up inside, always twisted up inside. I hail a cab, and before I can change my mind, I give Bobby's address, not mine.

I'm at his door, banging, wondering if he is home. I look at the neighbor's door, thinking about the last time I was at his apartment banging on his door, thinking about the way she looked at me. I wonder if she knows. A nosy neighbor always knows. I'm about to walk away, I want to walk away, but I can't walk away. So I reach for his knob and am surprised to find no locks in place. I walk in. The television is on, but he is not on the couch. I see the open bottle on the counter. I walk back to his bedroom, where he is sprawled, passed out, fully dressed, face first on his bed. I reach forward and pull off his shoes. I smile, he has very large shoes.

He stirs and rolls over to look at me. I lean over and help him off with his coat. I am surprised that he is still wearing his gun. I take that off as well, setting the holster and the weapon on his dresser. He is on his back watching me. I lean over and touch his hair. _I love you_. He says. His words surprise me. They hit me like a ton of bricks. His words are out of focus, he is out of focus, he will not remember his words tomorrow.

He reaches up sweetly touching the features of my face, the curve of my ear, the moisture of my lips. _I love you_. He says the words again, he is trying to keep his eyes open, to keep looking at me, he loses. I watch him until his breathing becomes deep and even. I shove at him until he rolls onto his side. I grab a blanket, throw it over him. I study him, the tired lines around his eyes, the scruffy beard on his face, the grey in his hair. My heart is racing. I think about his words. It should make me happy to hear such words. But they don't make me happy. All of the things that pass between us due are tangled up in his drinking and his drinking is keeping me from falling in love with him.

**X**

End.


End file.
